A Change
by qwardofanima
Summary: Gap fill after Planchet is ordered to bring the musketeers more wine.


A Change

_A/N: Been reading a lot of fics, but haven't really tried my hand at writing. So, that said, I now present to you the first fic in what I hope will become one of many fanfics centering around **The Three Musketeers **(which by the way, I do not own: Disclaimer)._

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Leaning back with his feet propped up on the table in front of him, Porthos looked out the window at the now cloudy and dark sky. He was restless, and much more sober than he wished to be after defeating the Cardinal's guards earlier in the day. The rustle of a page being turned and a long winded sigh pulled his gaze from the window to his friend sitting across the room.

Aramis was still reading the small leather bound Bible he'd not given up after leaving the seminary. The would be priest had been reading since they returned from their brawl in St. Germain, only stopping once or twice to change seats in order to keep up with the suns ever moving rays. When the sunlight ceased to provide him with adequate lighting, he'd taken the seat Athos had abandoned and lit a candle overhead. There he still sat assisted by the flickering light, eyes steadily tracing their way down page after page of minuscule text.

How the younger man could read for so long, Porthos did not know. He'd never had an interest in reading any kind of book, let alone the Holy one, and he wasn't planning on delving into any stories any time soon. Why read about an adventure, when you've been on so many real ones already? It made absolutely no sense, and was a waste of time in his opinion.

The third step from the top of the stairs creaked, pulling Porthos from his thoughts and signaling the return of their newest acquaintance, the young D'Artagnan. The three of them had conversed a bit upon returning to their home, speaking of beliefs and great causes. At some point during the evening they had landed upon the topic of where the boy would be staying while he was in Paris, and since he had neither plans on where to stay nor family with which to reside, it was decided that he would remain with them. Now it would seem, he was finished moving his precious few belongings from Buttercup to the upstairs chamber that would now be his.

Having become dreadfully bored and getting more sober by the minute, Porthos had had enough of the penetrating silence that had taken hold moments after Planchet's departure to retrieve food and wine. He welcomed the boy with a gusto that suggested he'd not seen him in weeks.

"Well lad? How'd the unpacking go? Do you think the chambre will suffice?"

D'Artagnan smiled widely at the greeting. It had been more than three days since he left his loving parents behind in Gascony, and the separation was still fresh in his mind. When he'd made the decision to go to Paris, he was unaware of how much he would be affected by their absence. Being warmly welcomed into the home of his new friends kept his spirits up, even if they were still only briefly acquainted.

"It's great. I think I shall hardly miss home at all now," was his reply.

"Glad to hear it!" Porthos cheered. He patted the bench next to him. "Come and sit with us. You look like you could take a load off."

D'Artagnan smiled sheepishly, embarrassed that his weariness was clearly visible, and happily took Porthos up on his offer by slumping down on the wooden surface with a soft groan.

Aramis glanced up from his book to give the boy a once over. His shoulders were slouched, there were dark circles under his eyes, a few light bruises had formed since their fight, and his skin looked a bit pale with a slight flush on his cheek bones, though that could easily be explained by lack of proper rest and nutrition after traveling so far. Porthos' former statement was correct, if not a bit of an understatement. D'Artagnan looked a mess and would probably have a dreamless sleep that night.

The front door slammed against the wall, startling the three of them and gathering their collective attention. Heavy footsteps quickly shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen. All three of them looked up.

Upon seeing that it was Planchet, hands full of food and drink, Porthos brought his feet from atop the table and let them slam on the ground as he leaned forward. "By God, Planchet, it's about damn time. Where the hell've you been? We're starving here, man!"

"Yes, well, sorry about that, sir. It's just not easy to find anything good at the market this late in the evening." Aramis turned to the lackey, giving him a stern look. "Not that it's your fault, sirs," Planchet quickly amended, stuttering slightly.

The look on Porthos' face sent a clear message saying, "We don't care. Now go make food," so Planchet quickly scurried into the kitchenette to light the stove and prepare the meat, potatoes, and carrots he'd picked up.

Nearly a half hour later, the table was set, the food was served, and Athos was summoned back to the dinner table by the mixed aroma of meat and vegetables. He walked purposefully over to the table and sat down without saying a word, before digging into his bowl.

"Well, well," Porthos laughed teasingly. "Look who's come back to grace us with his presence. Or perhaps the only reason you've come back, Athos, is for the food?"

"Does it matter?" the older musketeer grunted.

"I suppose not, so whatever your reasons for returning, we are glad to have you friend," Aramis said with a pointed look at Porthos striving to prevent the two elder musketeers from getting into an argument. "Wine?" he offered Athos.

Athos nodded and looked around for a chalice then frowned. He snapped at Planchet who was eating in the kitchen. The lackey hopped up immediately and brought them the cups he'd neglected to set out. "Sorry about that, sirs."

"Shut up, Planchet," Athos said bluntly, not in the mood for excuses or apologies.

The five males ate in a tense silence after that. It was more than obvious that Athos was not in the best of moods, and no one wanted to set the oldest musketeer off. Even D'Artagnan who had not been with them for more than half a day was well aware that it would be best to keep quiet for the time being. He thought about how the air of the moment was filled with the same uneasiness that was present whenever his parents had had an argument. He allowed himself a small smirk at the bitter sweet memory before taking a sip of the water diluted wine(1) he'd been given and continued to sit in the awkward silence, unsure of what was to come.

VVVVVVVVVVVV

After a rather uneventful and unsociable dinner, Planchet cautiously removed the dirtied platters and eating utensils but made sure to leave the cups and even brought out a bottle of Anjou wine. He might act like an unskilled twit at times, but he knew his masters inside and out. The vibes from Athos were particularly unsettling tonight, so best keep him happy and well stocked with his favorite wine.

Porthos quickly snatched the bottle up and chuckled at the fierce glare Athos gave him for doing so. He poured himself a glass and, being the good friend that he is, passed it along to Athos who rolled his eyes. The older musketeer swirled the liquid around in his cup before taking a sip.

Aramis was once again buried in his Bible, though he could be caught sneaking peaks at his friends over the top of the binding. He smirked at the antics between Porthos and Athos, giving away that he was indeed paying attention to the interactions going on around him. His eyes darted over to the youngest member of their group this evening.

D'Artagnan had been very quiet for well over an hour now, and though the musketeers did not know the lad's usual behavior, they could still feel that something was off.

"What's troubling you, lad?" Porthos asked after draining his glass. "All that fire from earlier seems to have left you."

"Wha-oh...it's nothing. I just, uh, ate a little too much," he assured, forcing a smile that looked more like a pained grimace.

Athos slammed his ceramic glass on the table and whipped his head in the young man's direction.

"Don't lie, boy," he ground out. "If you are to stay with us, we will not be taken for sightless imbeciles. If something is ailing you," his eyes traveled to D'Artagnan's arm, "it would be in your best interest to tell us."

D'Artagnan suddenly found the wood grain of the table very interesting. "I...may have overdone it during the fight today," he admitted, grabbing his arm and squeezing it in an attempt to force the shooting pain to leave him alone.

"Aramis," Athos beckoned to the younger man, forcing him to look up from his book. "Take care of his arm, will you?"

"Of course," he replied in relief. He'd been wanting to take care of the injury since he noticed it earlier, but didn't want to force himself upon the boy so soon after being introduced. He left to retrieve the supplies he would need and came back not but a minute later. "This," Aramis tugged on center of D'Artagnan's shirt, "needs to come off."

D'Artagnan looked uncertain, like he was trying to hid something, but nodded and slipped the baggy shirt off his person while Aramis settled himself on a stool in front of him.

Aramis' features softened as he took in the sight before him. The boy's chest and arms were riddled with various cuts, scrapes, and bruises. He reached out and gently ran his fingers over a particularly nasty looking bruise on D'Artagnan's side, causing him to wince.

Porthos raised an eyebrow at the clearly recent battle wounds. "Geez, lad. What happened? Those all can't possibly be from today's scuffle. Did you duel your way to Paris?" D'Artagnan pursed his lips and looked away innocently. Porthos laughed. "You did! Well, I guess after seeing you go at it with the Cardinal's guards, I'm not particularly surprised."

Athos rolled his eyes in displeasure. He would _not_ be condoning D'Artagnan's rash actions and cocky bravery. Having confidence is one thing, but to be overconfident will almost always have a high price for loss. This is especially true in the art of swordplay. Cockily proposing a duel with the wrong opponent is a dangerous thing, and most often will end in the challenger's death. D'Artagnan was lucky in his duel with Rochefort as this should have been his fate. He should have gone down like those poor souls that came before him who were foolish enough to provoke the Captain and earn his disfavor.

Every soldier and musketeer in Paris knew that Rochefort did not dismiss a slight against him no matter how insignificant. The good captain was not one to play by the rules either. His reputation for bringing guns to a sword fight were well known in Northern France, which is apparently just what the young Gascon came to find out the hard way. Of course, D'Artagnan was not from the area and would therefore not have prior knowledge of the man, but he should know better than to go around challenging every waking soul he comes into contact with to a duel. Doing so would just increase your chances of making more enemies like the Cardinal's captain of the guard, which was not a good thing. There were many swordsman in France and Italy who were feared for their ruthlessness and skill with the blade. More and more of them were popping up every year.

Athos clenched his teeth with a soft growl as he stared at the young man.

D'Artagnan was putting his own life at risk with his actions. It was idiotic and it got on his nerves. How could one so young and so talented be so utterly stupid? Athos didn't understand what may have possessed him to pick a fight with Rochefort. And over what? A horse? It was folly. This _boy_ needed to be reigned in, or Porthos' prediction would be right and D'Artagnan would be dead within a week...

"-thos?" Aramis was looking at him with a questioning gaze. "Are you alright?"

Athos, realizing he was fixed angrily on the boy who was watching him warily in return, unclenched his fist, sighed heavily, and leaned back in his seat. "I'm fine. Just got lost in my thoughts."

D'Artagnan's gaze twitched in the direction of Porthos, as if expecting the older man to help him understand what was going on.

Porthos just shrugged and gave him as sweet a smile as someone his size could give, then turned his attention to Athos with a look of disapproval.

"Sorry," Athos muttered begrudgingly. His interest went back to his wine as he drained the cup of the remaining alcohol and poured himself another glass.

Aramis shook his head and turned back to D'Artagnan. Now that all the minor cuts had been treated with a salve, he could turn his attention to the bullet wound, which would be the most painful. He frowned. The wound was swollen and there was a redness around the edges that worried him so he leaned in to further inspect the damage.

'_Great,'_ he thought. It didn't look like it had been cleaned, or if it had, it had not been cleaned very well. He bit his lip remembering the flush he'd seen on D'Artagnan's cheeks earlier and came to the conclusion that the injury was indeed infected. He would have to re-open some of the wound which had begun to close up and clean it out if he wanted to make sure the infection would not spread. This meant the painful treating of this wound just jumped up a few notches.

He got up and ordered Planchet to bring him the bottle of genievre(2) which they kept for medical purposes such as these. They were fighters, so this was not the first time one of their wounds had become infected, nor would it be the last. A small blessing it was though, that it had been discovered early. It would make the recovery short and the small fever he undoubtedly had would hopefully not survive into tomorrow.

"Here you are, sir."

"Thank you, Planchet." Aramis took the bottle and drew a handkerchief from his pocket in order to douse the cloth with the liquid. He grabbed a small scalpel from his set of tools and turned to D'Artagnan, who looked at the small blade, a flicker of fear crossing his face. "I have to clean out the wound, but its already started to close." D'Artagnan gulped and nodded slowly in understanding. "This is going to hurt," he warned.

"One moment, Aramis," Porthos interrupted. He grabbed D'Artagnan's glass, walked over to the cupboard and filled it with a golden liquid, then walked back. "Let him drink this before you start. It might help ease the pain."

"What is it?" D'Artagnan asked, happy for the distraction.

"Just some brandy, lad. It's strong, so if you're lucky you won't even notice Aramis while he works. Poor Athos, usually has to grin and bear it. He is not that easily inebriated. You're a small one though, so it should do the job on you, just fine," he winked, easing the tension.

D'Artagnan took the glass and gulped it down with a grimace. It was not the best tasting liquid around and it made his throat burn, but Porthos was right. After a few minutes of letting the brandy set it, his head started to go foggy. His mind wandered around the room, stopping once to watch the dance of the flames in the fireplace and again to inspect the way the moonlight reflected into the window and onto the wall.

He dropped his gaze when he felt like something was burning his arm and was surprised to see that Aramis had already started working on the bullet wound.

He could feel a stinging sensation as a wet handkerchief was pressed against the now bleeding laceration. He lifted his right hand to reach for his glass, only to find that the limb was trembling uncontrollably. His mind and reactions were dulled because of the booze, but the pain was still there. He gulped in an attempt to calm himself, but the attempt failed when Aramis dug into the wound a little deeper, cleaning the raw flesh. A black veil crept in from the edges of his vision before he was engulfed by the darkness.

The room was relieved of a tension none of the men knew was there when D'Artagnan's body relaxed and slumped against the chair back. Now it was just the three of them.

Aramis worked on, unfazed by the subtle difference in his patient; Porthos beckoned the lackey for more drink; and Athos watched as Aramis meticulously cleansed the wound, making sure every invading speck of dirt was out. He felt a twinge on his heartstrings and his face softened when a small whimper escaped D'Artagnan. His heart skipped a beat and he was immediately on alert. He had promised himself that he would not develop an attachment to this reckless individual lest Porthos' prediction came true. He could not afford to become soft in his old age, and he feared that if he allowed himself to get to know this child, that is exactly what he would become.

He turned away from the pair to find Porthos smiling at him knowingly. "What?" Athos snapped.

Porthos raised his hands in defense. "Nothing friend. Just observing." The robust man looked into the fire with a tired sigh. "You're not going to win. You _do_ know that, don't you?"

"What do you mean, Porthos?" Athos asked impatiently.

"I mean with the boy. He's already won. He won the minute he told us his name," Porthos said, remembering the look of wonderment that had flitted across Athos' face in Cooper's Yard. "You're in denial oh wise one. Why don't you just drop the charade and confess? You won't need to go very far. We've got Padre here. You can just confess to him."

Porthos ducked when a black boot came flying at him from right around where Aramis and the long since passed out D'Artagnan were sitting.

"Oh come now, Aramis. Don't be like that. You're the one who's constantly insisting that you're going back to the seminary. Are you not?"

"Shut it, Porthos. I'm trying to work, and would rather not have you talking about me behind my back."

"How can it be talking behind your back? You're right there in front of me. Sure, your back is turned, but that's just an expression and it's not as though you are deaf."

"Shut up, both of you," Athos shouted, rubbing his temples. "Are you nearly done, Aramis? Some of us would like to go to sleep before dawn."

"Then why don't you? There's nothing keeping you here," Porthos taunted.

Athos jerked upright and sucked his breath in, then glanced at D'Artagnan again.

Porthos just sat and shook his head in mock disappointment. "Athos, Athos, Athos. We can read you like an open book. Not sure how else you could read a book, but I think you know what I mean."

The ting of metal and the rustle of fabric was heard as Aramis gathered up his tools and put a fresh linen shirt on D'Artagnan. He stood up with a smile. "Finished. The arm will be sore for a while, and he's got a slight fever, but he should be fine by tomorrow morning."

Athos couldn't suppress the relief that flooded him to his core.

"Now, if someone wants to help me kart him up the stairs, that would be most appreciated."

Porthos stood up and walked over the the boy, easily lifting him up out of the chaise. "I've got him. Planchet's chamber?"

"Not tonight. Put him in my room," Aramis clarified. "I want to watch him overnight to make sure the fever doesn't take a turn."

"You hear that, Planchet? It sounds like you get your own bunk for one more night." There was no answer. "Planchet?"

"Planchet went to sleep on the balcony already," Aramis said with a snicker.

Porthos' laugh echoed through the stairwell as he started to climb. "Then I say the fool can stay out there for shirking his duties and turning in early."

Aramis shrugged and headed to the sink to clean his utensils. "I was going to say, it was because I did not wish to be thought rude by waking him, but your reasoning works as well I suppose."

Athos walked over to Aramis now that Porthos was out of earshot. "Are you going to need any help?"

Aramis didn't turn to face him, instead keeping his focus on the tiny instruments. "If you want to take first watch, that'd be fine. It'll be quite boring, but better safe than sorry."

Athos nodded and headed up the stairs as quietly as he could. He peered around the corner to make sure Porthos had gone to his own room. Seeing that no one was in the hallway and that the door to Porthos' room was well shut, he dashed into Aramis' room and froze.

"Oh, hello Athos," Porthos greeted him mischievously. "I'll just being going now."

Athos groaned in embarrassment at being caught. He knew Porthos was right earlier, but he didn't want to confirm it for the man.

"Good night, Athos!" Porthos called down the hall.

"Good night, Porthos," Athos relayed.

He looked down at the small brunet that had wandered into their lives just that morning. A soft chuckle of defeat left him. Having such a young one now among them, their humdrum lives would now be turning in a new direction he supposed. Youth did not sit still, and it would not allow for those caught in its surroundings to sit idly either. Everything from this moment onward would be new and fresh like an autumn breeze. Each day was bound to be filled with either profound excitement or debilitating heartbreak. He could sense it in the air and feel it deep into his bones...there was adventure and romance coming right around the corner. All they had to do now, was wait.

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_A/N: The End. :) I am obligated by my own code to say 'The End' after a story. Funny thing about 'The End'? Teachers apparently don't like it when you end speeches with it. Nor do they like it when you end a speech with "So...yeah." Me? Not a speech giver. I tried, but unless it's impromptu I'm screwed. Why am I saying this? I'm not entirely sure. Could be because I've got a group presentation coming up next week. Yay for group work...just kidding, I detest group work with a great deal of passion. Anyway, thanks for reading. Review if you feel like it. I won't force you, but it would be nice to receive some concrit (lots can be given, I'm sure), or maybe just a smiley or sad face if that's all you can give. Thanks again._

_~Heart, qoa~_

_Reffies:_

_(1) - Just read a Prates of the Caribbean book by A. C. Crispin (which I absolutely could not stop reading, and I mean that quite literally...I was up for a full 27 hours the first day I got it, yikes!). It's called _The Price of Freedom,_ and the diluting of wine was mentioned more than once. I decided to bring it into one of my fic since I cannot yet seem to process the idea of a drunk D'Artagnan. He's too young in my mind to drink wine and other spirits just for the sake of drinking._

_(2) In English this would be "Gin." The Dutch created it by infusing distilled spirits with juniper berries in the 16th century and called it "junever", the French called it "genievre" and it later became known as "gin" when the English got their hands on it. Distilled spirits were often used for medicinal purposes, and I know they probably meant by ingesting the liquid, but due to the relatively high alcohol content (approx 40%), I figure it can also be used to disinfect. Information found at - www2[dot]potsdam[dot]_


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